A FRAUD IF EVER THERE WAS ONE
"Todd, it's Jane. Meet me at the sheriff's office."
He'd had this crazy idea ever since he met Ellis Mars. Well, that was when the idea to somehow use Mars had begun to formulate. The pompous, self-serving fool of a "clairvoyant" had really brought it on himself, taking a chance on gaining Jane's attention by saying he could tell the consultant had been visited by great tragedy. The audacity. If Mars wanted to play, by all means, Jane would let him play.
Mars wanted access to the case and the attention of law enforcement handling the triple homicide of two deputies and the fiancée of EMT Todd Johnson, the late sheriff's nephew. Jane had fed Mars just enough information for the fraud to use in scamming the locals into believing that there was something to his claim of being a psychic. The former deputy sheriff, promoted to number one due to Sheriff Mullery's subsequent murder in the field, had been awestruck by Mars' "abilities".
They had let Mars walk around the home of one of the victims, Keeley Farlowe—Johnson's fiancée. Gad, Mars wasn't even very good. Psychic? He was more like comic relief on one of the funny episodes of the X-Files. Thinking this case would make his reputation, the buffoon had even had business cards professionally printed to replace his hand-lettered ones. Jane had stood by providing commentary to a delightfully skeptical Lisbon while Mars went through the charade of sharing his "expertise" with the sheriff's department and his "insights" with the, as yet, small pool of news media.
The plan had slowly taken shape in his mind over the course of the previous day and night but had really come together in the last few hours. He just needed to set the scene.
It was during the press conference while Mars was announcing that the killer believed himself to be a werewolf . Really. Jane was standing to the side just behind Lisbon. She had been wearing her hair in this bun, high on the back of her head, during the entire case, obviously not wanting her long curling hair to further confuse the rather sexist sheriff about her ability to do a man's job. That bun was Lisbon personified—pinned high and uptight. So far during this case, they had had disagreements on Red John, revenge, handing the case over to the Feds, and whether Todd Johnson should be released after attacking a suspect in the case. Now Jane had insinuated Mars into the investigation, using him in one of his schemes to catch the person he suspected of committing the triple murders that had proven to be part of a series of cop killings. Poor Lisbon was cringing non-stop.
Mars was rattling away, spewing his utter nonsense, and the reporters were soaking it up like gullible sponges. And there was that bun, just taunting him. Two evenings earlier, they had had yet another disagreement about Red John. He wished he could make her understand. Actually he was sure she did understand his desire for revenge, his abject need to be the one to end Red John. What he really wanted was for her to accept that she wouldn't be able to stop him, that his quest for the serial killer would end just as he said and that she should give up believing there could be another outcome. He knew she would be hurt and disappointed enough without continuing to believe there was some chance of redeeming him. She just needed something to jar her into facing the truth. Thinking of jarring her, that gave him an idea about the current case, but he hesitated, knowing it would try the temper of the woman who, throughout the investigation, had treated him with the patience of a saint.
She had stood in the background, listening to Mars, unable to believe what she was hearing and hoping none of the reporters connected the CBI to this idiocy. When she turned and snarked at Jane over her shoulder, claiming to know his game, he gave into the urge and plucked the one long, single strand that had escaped from that uptight bun.
He had felt it, curling and silken, as he wound it round his finger before tucking it into his waistcoat pocket, keeping it safe until he had a chance to use it in his scheme. He had baited the new sheriff and the fake psychic, making sure necessary players would show up at the crime scene once darkness fell. Mars had had the "gift" scared out of him by the unwitting deputies at the scene and had barreled down the road pell-mell to get away from the men he believed might be the murderers. Jane had been watching him, ready to follow in his car once he determined which way the imbecile would run. He caught up with Mars, and subtly convinced him to come to the motel to hide out from the local officers of the law who would surely want revenge on anyone they suspected of killing three of their own plus the innocent and very likable Miss Farlowe. Mars had been hysterical. All in all, this was the most fun Jane had had in a long time. Things couldn't get any better.
He just needed to draw the murderer in, and he needed Lisbon. He had called Todd Johnson, and now Jane stood outside her motel room door; he knew this was her room because—like always—it was right next to his. She had let him have his head that evening, not insisting on keeping tabs on him, knowing in the little town with no bigwigs to poke, he really couldn't get into much trouble. Maybe he really didn't need her . . . but having her help out with his schemes always made them go a bit smoother. And, it was a bit more fun.
"Lisbon! Lisbon, get dressed! I have an excellent play in motion!" he said in a loud whisper as he knocked and paused, trying to give her time to get to the door. His impatience won out, and he called her name and knocked a second time. The curtain next to the door was whipped back, and she opened the slider, her annoyance plainly written on her face in spite of her grogginess. Whaddyaknow? Things could get better.
"Whadizit?" she managed, barely able to hold her eyes open.
He wasn't really surprised she had been asleep, but the sight of her in the oversized Cubs jersey was enough to have him taking a long look. He peered at her around the door frame, his eyes moving up and down her body, glad that in her drowsy state she wouldn't notice his outright ogling. The jersey had slid down on one side, giving him a generous show of bare skin that slanted from her neck and down one arm nearly to her elbow, the view impeded only by that glorious hair released from its confines and tumbling down around her shoulders. The jersey was short, giving him a rare view of her legs. Lisbon had great legs. She really should wear skirts more. He didn't need to stare. It was a pleasure to use his talent for taking in every detail in a glance for something so much nicer than the usual crime scene. It lasted a little longer than a glance, however, and it took him a moment to remember exactly why he was there in the first place.
"Uh, get dressed! I have an excellent play in motion!"
"Uhn?" She grimaced in pained disbelief and slid the door shut, sliding the curtain back in place over it.
He knew in spite of her seeming protest, she was even now peeling the jersey off and changing into her very functional work clothes. He considered only a moment before he did the most sophomoric thing he'd done in years. He tried to get a glimpse of her through the peephole. And, to top it off, when that didn't work out, he peered at the curtain on the off chance that she hadn't closed it completely. Hm. Maybe she knew him a little better than he realized. Or maybe, having noticed his completely understandable and nearly innocent leering, she just knew men.
She was out the door in minutes. And there was that bun again. Only now it didn't taunt him. He actually found it quite attractive. Almost mysterious.
They walked into the sheriff's office together with Todd Johnson, who had met them there in response to Jane's call. Lisbon stepped to the new sheriff who was on the phone demanding more personnel for the manhunt that was on for Ellis Mars, who had been spotted at the crime scene behaving like a guilty man. Jane encouraged Johnson to join her in asking a few questions on what was up. She was so good, if he hadn't just told her what was going on, Jane would've believed she was as clueless as everyone else in the room. She really was a good sport. They disagreed sometimes—even outright argued. But she was always there in a pinch. He could count on her to throw herself into the act headlong—much better than any of the others on the team.
It was important that Todd Johnson believed that Ellis Mars was the law's most likely suspect in order for the plan to work. Jane had doctored Mars' car to make it look like he was indeed guilty. Lisbon barely flinched, and Jane thought she was fighting the urge to turn around and glare at him when she heard the sheriff say that dried blood and a long human hair had been found in the vehicle. She'd probably get him for that later. Right now, she was backing up the sheriff's wild suppositions with a textbook explanation on the behavior of psychopaths, giving credence to the theory that Mars was guilty. She really was the best.
Just before he baited Johnson yet again, reeling him in for the final act at the motel, he gave Lisbon and her bun a nod. He didn't miss the look in her eye as she took out her phone, probably to call Cho to make sure he and Rigsby were in place. "Please be careful." He'd seen that look a thousand times.
Later, after Johnson had been arrested, Jane lay on his makeshift bed in the dusty attic room at the CBI thinking over the events of the case: the initial arrival at the crime scene out in the countryside; Lisbon's uneasiness over taking the case and her giving into his request that she do so; Ellis Mars and his clownish clairvoyant act; Lisbon's complicity with his scheme and the way she had looked framed in the doorway at the motel, groggy and soft and fresh out of a warm bed . . . He rubbed his hand across his eyes and down over his face as if he were trying to scrub something away.
He considered for just a moment that the only compunction he might have about killing Red John—compunction, not hesitation—would be hurting Lisbon. He would hate that, but it couldn't be helped. He hoped she would be able to forgive him one day, whether he survived the confrontation or not.
Her voice called his name as she knocked on the industrial metal door then slid it open without waiting for an answer as had become her custom. Good thing he never changed clothes in here. He had taken up residence in the attic to distance himself from the team, but Lisbon came up here to talk almost as often as she had approached him on his couch in the bullpen. Tenacious as a bulldog, that woman. He really didn't mind.
Todd Johnson wanted to talk, but he would only do so with Jane. He said they had a connection, and he had a secret that he would only share with the consultant. Jane was rather out of patience with him. He was a psychopathic serial killer who had murdered his fiancée when she started asking too many questions and then had the audacity to feign the desire for revenge against her killer. Meh. He could keep his secret.
Lisbon stood looking down at him as he lay there, one knee bent with the opposite ankle resting atop it, head nestled into his pillow. He remembered a time when she would have been practically scandalized to talk to him in such circumstances. It was a fairly usual setting for their in-house conversations now. He guessed this was the closest he would ever get to pillow talk again. For her sake, he agreed to go down to the holding cell.
Johnson was on fire—flaming, burning to death, melting before his very eyes, still standing, his arms swaying back and forth in some macabre dance. Jane had never seen a burning human put out with a fire extinguisher before. One of the most gruesome sights he'd ever encountered.
Later he sat by the young psychopath's bedside, waiting to hear anything the man had to say. Lisbon opened the door and leaned in.
"PSU's starting an investigation. They figure it's somebody getting revenge for Officer Howard."
"Mm," was his only reply.
"They'll need to speak with you later today."
"Okay," he nodded at her, wanting her to know that he heard her, that he understood but that he wasn't really concerned with that right now. It was a given that she would stall them for him as long as he needed, serving as a buffer for him.
"Doctor says his systems are shutting down—that he probably won't regain consciousness." She stood looking at him, waiting for a response. It was also a given that she was more worried about him than the dying man in the bed. When she realized she would get nothing more out of him, she decided to leave him to his vigil.
"Okay then. I'm going to go finish up the paperwork now." Still no response. She closed the door and walked away. She had no sooner cleared the bank of windows than Johnson opened his eyes and turned to Jane as if he had been waiting for her to leave. He opened his lips and took in a pained breath, and Jane leaned forward, anxious to hear his last words.
"Tiger, tiger." Johnson rasped the words out then flatlined. Medical personnel swarmed the bed, trying to save the life that had already been lost. Jane felt physically as if he was in shock, but his mind was working too quickly for that.
So that had been Johnson's secret. That was why it had been so easy for him to play Jane with his act of revenge, why it had taken Jane so long to catch on to him. Jane sat back in his chair and contemplated with disappointment and despair so deep that it rimmed his eyes with the red of unshed, stinging tears.
One more connection to Red John, one more link that could have brought him to within striking distance was lost. Hardy, then Rebecca and now Todd Johnson. Only Johnson had apparently been willing to talk. He didn't believe in any god, but was this some sort of terrible cosmic joke? Maybe this was punishment for allowing himself to lie on his attic bed and indulge in thoughts of Lisbon.
And it would be one more lie. One more lie he told her by not telling her the truth.
He pushed up out of the chair and left the doctors and nurses to their hopeless endeavor. What had she said? PSU would want to talk to him. He would go back to the CBI and wait. Maybe write in his journal. Maybe lie on his bed with his eyes closed, seeing nothing, seeing if he could think about nothing.
Lisbon would know where to find him.